


Home Economics

by annejumps



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Community: kink_bingo, Domestic Kink, M/M, Vanilla Kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-24
Updated: 2012-11-24
Packaged: 2017-11-19 11:02:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,115
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/572562
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/annejumps/pseuds/annejumps
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This was quite a lot of work for Arthur to be up to the day after getting home from a job. But he seemed happy, humming to himself and wiping his hands absently on his apron, in bare feet and rolled-up sleeves.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Home Economics

**Author's Note:**

> Written for [kink_bingo](http://kink-bingo.dreamwidth.org/) Round 5 for the square _vanilla kink_ (although I've gotten bingo twice; this is sort of a bonus). Beta'd by [anatsuno](https://archiveofourown.org/users/anatsuno/pseuds/anatsuno).

Eames was sitting in Arthur’s plushest wing-back chair, reading the _New York Times_ and smoking an actual pipe, wearing slippers Arthur had bought him, when he looked up to see Arthur in an apron with a plate of cookies and a glass of milk, his expression tranquil.

Between jobs, Eames essentially lived in this house of Arthur’s, a charming little craftsman-style Connecticut bungalow complete with a white picket fence and a porch swing (it wasn’t at all like Arthur’s marble-floored New York penthouse, but he seemed fond of it nonetheless), and Arthur occasionally baked cookies and wouldn’t let Eames help.

“Thank you, sweetheart,” Eames said around the pipe, setting the paper aside as Arthur put down the plate and the glass, and presented his cheek for a kiss. Upon receiving it, he smiled, and serenely walked back to the kitchen.

Eames ate his plate of warm chocolate-chip cookies and drank the entire glass of milk, and some time later Arthur returned to collect the dishes. “I’ll do it,” Eames said, starting to stand, but Arthur shook his head. “No, no.”

A job was coming up, and the next day Arthur started researching for it, which as usual led to him lounging about, lanky and distracted and distracting, muttering to himself as he scribbled notes and frowned at his computer screen and fidgeted. He went to Vancouver for ten days, and Eames puttered around his house in the meantime and read some of his books.

On Arthur’s return, after the night they spent reunited, Arthur set about cleaning the house properly, vacuuming and dusting and putting things away. Apparently Eames’ attempts to tidy up were insufficient, but surprisingly, Arthur never complained as he might have in the past. Eames had tried, at least.

Eames had started mowing the lawn each week back when he’d initially fallen into living here and Arthur had asked him to, saying it was more convenient than hiring a gardener. The day after Arthur’s return also fell on Eames’ usual mowing day. After Arthur made him a sandwich, he went out and mowed in a white undershirt and old trousers while Arthur sat on the porch swing, and when he was done, Arthur got a glass of lemonade for him. He stood sweating in the kitchen and drank it while Arthur smiled beatifically.

Arthur went to the grocery store while Eames took a shower, and when he got back Eames helped him take in the bags. Arthur then set about baking a cake.

This was quite a lot of work for Arthur to be up to the day after getting home from a job. But he seemed happy, humming to himself and wiping his hands absently on his apron, in bare feet and rolled-up sleeves. When not watching Arthur out of the corner of his eye, Eames watched a football match and occasionally shouted at the telly.

“The cake’s cooling,” Arthur announced as he sauntered from the kitchen. He sat on Eames’ lap, apron and all.

“It smells lovely,” Eames said, and it did, the faint air of fresh strawberries wafting from the kitchen along with the warm scent of the cake. “What’s the occasion?”

“Nothing,” Arthur said with a Mona Lisa smile. “Just felt like it.”

“Well, I’m looking forward to it,” Eames said, kissing his neck. The football match was forgotten as Arthur squirmed in his lap and Eames took kisses that tasted like strawberries.

Arthur eventually slid to his knees and got Eames’ trousers open and his mouth on Eames’ cock, and proceeded to give him a very languid, slow, drawn out, maddening, exquisite blowjob that had Eames making half-voiced incoherent protests every time Arthur, eyes heavy-lidded and hot-gazed, drew off.

When Arthur finally let him come down his throat, Eames sank back into the chair and closed his eyes, and realized suddenly that Arthur was on his feet and back in the kitchen before Eames could reciprocate. He was, however, in no state to get up and follow him.

Arthur frosted the cake despite how hard he must have been, and as Eames nearly dozed off, he was startled when Arthur returned to his chair, flushed and calmly triumphant, holding a plate on which was a gorgeous slice of strawberry cake. The cake itself was a lovely deep pink, and the frosting a fluffy pale pink, adorned with strawberry slices. “For you,” he said, handing it to Eames along with a fork and a glass of milk.

Eames ate the cake and drank the milk and was overall very content. “That was delicious, love,” he said when Arthur returned to sit with him, on the couch. “Do you need help cleaning up the kitchen?”

“No, but I will need you to move some furniture for me.”

“Point me to it, kitten,” Eames said, stretching.

Arthur directed him in moving the étagère from one wall to another, the coffee table a foot forward, the chairs facing each other at a different angle, and the credenza with the record player to a better acoustical placement. It all seemed a bit pointless but Eames did it anyway.

Arthur roasted a small chicken for supper, and had Eames carve it. He sent Eames off to read in his armchair after they ate, and Eames did, and then Arthur brought him a digestif. Arthur lit his pipe for him and brought him his slippers, as he’d done before and insisted on continuing to do, and Eames reflected on how nice it was to have a long stretch of time between jobs where they could relax like this.

Arthur did the _Times_ crossword until it was time for bed; then they brushed their teeth and Arthur changed into his silk pajamas and Eames into his plaid sleep trousers and an old soft shirt. They got under the covers, and Arthur put an arm over him and kissed him goodnight, and was perfectly lovely, and Eames remembered how he hadn’t come that afternoon but seemed not to have minded. Eames felt for his cock and found him very hard indeed. Arthur inhaled and curled his fingers in Eames’ shirt.

“You kinky fucker,” Eames said, “you’re getting off on this.”

Arthur didn’t say anything.

“The baking and the cleaning, watching me do chores--”

“Are you criticizing my preferred method of finding enjoyment between very stressful times in my career?” Arthur was dry, a little breathless.

“I don’t believe I am, no,” Eames replied.

“Good, because I need you to help me plant some roses tomorrow,” Arthur said.

Eames kissed him soundly, getting his hand into Arthur’s pajama trousers to wrap it firmly around his erection. Arthur gasped, arching into his grip, and Eames smiled.

“Yes, dear.”

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to [anatsuno](https://archiveofourown.org/users/anatsuno/), [Amy](https://archiveofourown.org/users/asunder), and Liz for all your help!


End file.
